Peter Lovesey - Swing, Swing Together

“We don’t know,” said Melanie despairingly. “We haven’t seen him this afternoon.”

“He’s much older than she is,” said Hardy.

“That’s no help, with respect, sir, if I don’t know the lady’s age.”

“About eighteen.”

“The man must be nearly forty,” added Melanie.

“I’m no judge of ages, ma’am. You say he’s dark-haired with a moustache. Can you remember anything else to help me? You see a lot of moustaches these days. To be personal, you’ve got one yourself, sir.”

“Anything else?” said Hardy, glaring at the man. “Mrs. Bonner-Hill, can you think of anything else to help this man decide whether he has seen Fernandez?”

“Fernandez?” repeated the boatman. “Do you mean Mr. Fernandez from Merton College? Why didn’t you mention his name before? Of course I’ve seen him! One of my best customers. He’s down here at every chance he gets. Always brings a lady with him, too. Yes, he collected a punt half an hour ago. Must have got to Mesopotamia by now.”

Hardy’s jaw dropped.

“It’s a meadow,” said Melanie. “I know exactly where he’ll have taken her. Boatman, we shall want a boat at once.”

Well, she had permitted him to kiss her. That would be something to tell them at Elfrida. A proper kiss on the lips with one hand under her head pressing her face to his and the other … Well, the other had not stayed in one place. Even now, when it appeared to be resting on her waist, she could feel small movements through her clothes.

If she was honest, kissing was not so exquisite as Molly and Jane had led her to expect. His lips had been damp and his moustache had tickled her nose distractingly. By all accounts including his own he was not inexperienced in such things, so perhaps the fault was hers. She was not sure whether it was prudent to allow him a second one. It was certainly not proper, but she had stopped being proper when she had accepted his offer of luncheon. Perhaps one more could be justified, so long as she made it quite clear that the liberties ended there. If there was anything in kissing, she would like to find out while she had the opportunity.

His hold on her waist tightened and his face came close again, more slowly and confidently this time, the water’s reflection glittering in his eyes.

Just as she parted her lips, the bells of Magdalen broke into a chime. Bells all over Oxford began sounding the hour. Harriet turned her head away and giggled.

“I’m sorry, John. That was so unexpected. I thought we were miles from anywhere and then the bells started.”

“They say it’s the best place in Oxford to listen to the bells,” said Fernandez without enthusiasm. “Great Tom is the last you hear.”

“What are they striking? Is it four o’clock? I ought to be back by now.”

“What is it? Are you afraid of me? Do you think I want to hurt you?” For the first time that afternoon, he looked as if he might.

Harriet was alarmed. “Of course I don’t, John! You have been more than kind to me, but if I am late in getting back, people will wonder where I am.”

“ People? What do you mean by that?”

She was on the point of naming Sergeant Cribb and his assistants, but checked herself in time. “People in the hotel. Melanie and others I have met. Afternoon tea is at half-past four. If I am not there, somebody will notice.”

“Afternoon tea? I gave you an expensive luncheon and champagne.” Emboldened by this, Fernandez placed his hand on her throat and drew it down, forcing open another button of her blouse. “I shall take you back in good time, Harriet. We were on the point of exchanging a kiss, if you remember.”

She remembered, but her curiosity was not so strong as to consent to a kiss in her present predicament. “If you would take away your hand, I should like to fasten my blouse. Then you may kiss me.”

It was a brave offer, and it impressed him enough to move his hand back to her throat.

“I should prefer to fasten my own collar, if you don’t mind,” said Harriet firmly. She took hold of his wrist and planted the hand where it had formerly been, on her waist.

As she leaned forward to attend to the buttons, something dropped from above her, something small that passed close to her face, touched the soft skin below her throat and lodged against the lace trimming of her chemise. “What was that?”

“A small caterpillar. It must have dropped off the tree. Shall I remove it?”

“Oh no!” She jerked away from him and the movement caused the caterpillar to fall between her breasts. “Oh, how horrid! I can feel it moving! It’s inside my clothes!” She forced her finger and thumb down the front of her stays, but was unable to reach it. “I cannot bear it!”

Fernandez turned and picked up his jacket. From the pocket he took out a clasp knife and opened it. “Turn round!”

She was on the edge of panic. “What are you doing?”

He grasped her shoulder and forced her to face the water. She felt her blouse tugged from under her belt and wrenched up her back to her shoulders. She drew in her breath in a gasp, preparing to scream.

“Quiet, for God’s sake, and keep still! I’m going to cut your laces.”

She should have realized it was the quickest way to loosen her stays and stop the tiny trespasser. She submitted, and felt the constriction ease with each cut. The torment inside her chemise increased. She would have writhed against the side of the punt if it were not for the touch of the knife on her spine.

The last lace snapped. Harriet succeeded in scooping her hand down the front of her clothes and extracting not a caterpillar, but an old brown catkin. It must have held fast to the tree for the whole of the summer. “A pussy willow!” she said.

Pandemonium followed.

Without warning, another punt coursed under the tree, with Constable Hardy aboard, crouching at the front, shouting, “Get away from her, you devil!”-and Melanie seated at the other end, screaming.

Fernandez turned, knife in hand, as Hardy leaped aboard and crashed a paddle over his head, knocking him insensible. The punt jerked against the bank and Harriet tipped headfirst into the water. Fortunately, it was only waist-deep.

She had started to stand up when she realized that her blouse was open to the waist and her stays jutted horizontally in front of her like a breakfast tray.

She hesitated only briefly. With style she had not dreamed she possessed, she pulled the stays free and dropped them into the water. Then she opened her arms and let Hardy lift her into the punt.

“You have rescued me, Roger,” she said. “You have rescued me again!” She held him tightly.

The empty champagne bottle, dislodged, like Harriet, from the punt, followed her stays downriver.

Jim Hackett’s suicidal leap from the Iffley Queen had various consequences. It earned Thackeray, his rescuer, a column of tribute in the Oxford Times and a cold that stayed with him for a month. It inspired a question in Parliament about the safety of life belts, after the one Thackeray had carried to Hackett had proved incapable of supporting him. And it gave Percy Bustard time to consider his position.

“Drink your cocoa, Jim, and don’t say a word,” he advised his accomplice, now swathed, like Thackeray, in a blanket, but with one arm handcuffed to a table in the saloon. “There’s no evidence against us. A decent lawyer will see us through. We can answer any charge they bring.”

Cribb smiled. “Feeling more confident, now you’re out of your skirts, Mr. Bustard? He’ll need to be a very good lawyer. I made a bad mistake early in this case-spent the best part of a week tagging after the shirttails of three gentlemen interested in other things than murdering university dons-but this time I don’t think I’m wrong. You murdered a tramp by the name of Walters on Tuesday night at Hurley, and Henry Bonner-Hill on Saturday morning in Oxford.”